Asking The Question Of Questions

Searching for some of life`s answers, I find a secluded place outside to reflect and ask questions.

I look at the sky but it does not reveal the true nature of things lest all mystery be lost. I look at the trees, swaying with the secrets of my childhood.

I walk across the yard, peering at every step that imprints on the slightly brittle grass.

Stopping, raising my head to the sky once again, I realize the day`s last hour has crept over me. My lips rattle off a string of words, and they take the form of questions that grope for some logic to life`s strange happenings. The queries fall on the grass, the pines, the stout, silent buildings.

The questions inevitably turn back onto me. They echo another time, when a 5-year-old would gaze up in wonderment at the cotton elephants and rabbits in the summer sky. A day when this child would find something fascinating in listening intently to the rustle of the trees. A day when the little boy, wandering through timeless days, would then, as now, look inside his heart and tap into his soul, asking that question of questions, ``Why``?